Dreamless
by Silential
Summary: Laurie, long a prisoner of others' wishes, takes her life into her own hands. As the world winds down and she decides not to stay with an old friend, the light of the doomsday clock reveals more than she bargained for. Rorschach/Laurie
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This story takes place as if Laurie, while still keeping in contact with Dan, decided not to stay with him. The events of the graphic novel will not be largely changed otherwise, I will make this work. I am a sincere fan of Watchmen and will try to do the graphic novel justice. Although Rorschach is not a fan of Laurie, as I hope you can see here, I want to establish more of a backstory in later chapters. This will not be a fluff piece, for that would be to go against both of their characters. It will be Rorschach/Laurie eventually, and I will try my hardest to keep them in character.

Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or any of the characters.

Enjoy!

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He, Daniel Dreiberg, had to be one of the most foolish men on the planet.

Slowly closing his front door, he leaned against its reassuring frame, distrusting his own legs.

He had stood there on his faded stoop, smiling pleasantly and waving goodbye as if his smile wasn't about to shatter behind closed doors. His voice had remained light and lively as he sent her off into the chilly night, bidding farewell to the dark-haired woman as she headed down his quiet street. With her skills, Laurie was as safe as anyone could be, it wasn't that which gave him pause. No, he, Dan Dreiberg, had let one of the few opportunities life had given him slowly walk away.

The urge to run after her, to beg her again to stay, was strong within his chest. But being who he was, his feet refused to move and his mouth remained determinedly closed. They had returned earlier than normal from a night with Hollis, Laurie protesting that she still had to find a room for the next few nights. It was at that point that he had offered the guest room on the second floor of his brownstone. His breath had caught in his chest, hoping against hope she would say yes.

She had looked tempted, he had to admit. For a few seconds she almost seemed as if she would agree. And then her smile had faded to a shadow of its former self and she delivered the disappointing news, asserting that while she was grateful for his support, she needed to live on her own for once. To prove she could, she had said.

It had taken a force of will almost as powerful as Rorschach's to keep his smile in place.

Now it took his entire being just to keep from running after her.

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The number on the door matched the one etched carelessly into the key.

Cool and rough to her fingertips, Laurie passed a thumb over the worn grooves and listened to the motel clerk's footsteps retreat down the shabby hallway. He had barely said a word the entire trek up the stairs. By the time they had reached the third floor, the huskily built man had gone absolutely silent, only the sound of the soft wheezes in his chest reaching her ears. Definitely a smoker, some corner of her mind whispered, and probably terminal.

The poor man. Or at least she liked to think of him as such; for all she knew, the dark-haired guy had murdered ten people under the auspices of some greasy back alley. While this wasn't the worst part of town, it still wouldn't surprise her. Nonetheless she preferred to give people the benefit of the doubt.

Most people anyway.

Some just weren't that deserving.

Brushing aside her souring thoughts, she turned her attention back to the still closed door. The floor, as much as she could tell by the relative silence, was largely empty. Apparently as luck would have it, the clerk had had one of the better rooms ready and open for the right price. Lucky her; the old, tired motel beat the seedy sex hostels a few blocks down. No matter how much Laurie wanted to get away, places like that were simply out of the question. She stared at the door as if it would unlock on its own.

Besides her overstuffed purse, the one bag she had thought to pack rested on the floor behind her. A blouse or two, trousers, jeans, and a few other necessary items made up the list of contents. All things considered, she was probably set for three or four days. The only thing was, she had a feeling her stay would turn out to be quite a good deal longer. She didn't need Jon's knowledge of the future to know that.

No doubt another visit to the lab lay in her future too, and with any luck it would be brief and final.

A sigh left her mouth before she could stop it, a habit she had thought eradicated long ago. It didn't fit a crime fighter, her mother had said; one must always have poise and discipline. Yet it couldn't be helped, and she had more pressing problems. Reaching for her bag, she straightened and slid the key into the lock. The metal had to be forced some, a few of the tumblers no doubt on the border of rusted in place, but the abused contraption yielded eventually. Splintered and stained wood swung inward at her touch to reveal a room that had probably seen better days.

The carpet gave up little eddies and puffs of dust like bursts of some toxic pollen in a field of flowers as she walked to the bed. Well alright, it required more imagination and energy to envision than she had at that moment, but it made a nice picture nonetheless. It trumped looking at the heavy curtains and bare taupe walls at least. The room wasn't necessarily as horrible as she had imagined given the motel's location in the city, yet it wasn't what Laurie was used to.

But then again, wasn't that the reason she had left – or one of them anyway? To escape the status quo that did nothing but disappoint again and again and again?

Sinking slowly onto the faintly sagging mattress, she let her bag fall at her feet and her hands came to rest in her lap. This abrupt change was stirring in the way things weren't the past few years. Life at the research base had flat lined to a dull monotony, one based on routine and a lingering feeling she still harbored for her lover. That had faded though, or was fading, spurred in part by his growing detachment from both her and life itself. If he wanted to drift from this world, so be it. She refused to do the same.

Laurie had been a protector of the innocent for years and look where it had gotten her. If she had any say in the matter – and goddamn it, she _did _no matter what Jon claimed– she wouldn't add _accomplice to the savior of humanity_ to the list. To a woman accustomed to heavy burdens, she had found one she could not shoulder.

After all, the world could end tomorrow. Following a life of being a puppet on another's strings, the last thing she wanted was to die bearing such a burden and under the control of another. To be honest, she wasn't entirely sure if she could even live without someone else.

It was time to learn; she owed that to herself.

When she had walked out the door yesterday, she hadn't known exactly what she would do. She hadn't known where to go, having few friends to call upon. In the long run, or what she could see of it anyway, that didn't seem to matter. Her first stop had been at an ATM she had found on Broadway, securing just enough for a night wherever she decided to stay. The government had long provided her with a monthly stipend, something about providing 'any and all necessary services to Dr. Manhattan in his work' – whatever that was supposed to mean.

Money secure in her pocket, she had strolled through the streets. Subtle fear clawed at her heart, but it was washed away by a pleasant sort of disbelief. Freedom or something akin to it settled around her figure, the thought that she could go anywhere or talk to anyone without the influence of another was intoxicating. She had moved from the house of her mother into the house of her lover with no pause, no breath of fresh air in between. This was her breath of fresh air, and it was the freshest, dirtiest, freest air she could find. A plan wasn't what she needed. A mentor, a lover, a handler wasn't what she needed right now. Right now the brunette needed to be alone, and this sort of feeling – this grungy, spontaneous feeling sticking to the ribs of this place – was more welcome than the cold iron of the military base or the warm tranquility of Dan's home.

Ah, Dan. Warmth spread through her chest at the thought of his smile. A good man. A good friend.

Perhaps that was why, for all of his entreaties to the contrary, Laurie had said goodnight and walked out onto the street after all. Her heart was full with intentions to see him again, continue to talk to him and grow closer to her old friend in the coming weeks, but live with him she could not. Listening to Dan and Hollis talk, laughing and reminiscing, she had realized that for all she wanted to, she could not impose on his life. In few words he had explained that he lectured on and off for the city college, his forte, of course, being ornithology and the history of bird evolution. The quiet life of the intellectual was a path that suited him perfectly, she thought, all scholarly and cheerful in his sweaters and aviator glasses. He was comfortable the way he was, or if he wasn't he created quite a brilliant charade to the contrary.

The last thing he needed was to be brought into the well of her pain. He had his life and his job. The man didn't need the turbulent waters of another person's break-up flooding his quiet home.

That's what she told herself when she left several hours ago anyway. While nonetheless true, she had to admit it wasn't the full story. When it came down to it, after living with Jon for so long, she needed to be on her own.

Her brow furrowing, she couldn't explain why she had to repeat that thought. It smelled suspiciously of justification, of an excuse, but it was all she had.

Shrugging at the direction her thoughts were taking, she glanced around the room once more. Comfortable if small, homey if drab. No neon or lycra, no stains from unspeakable acts in the night marring the furniture; just a plain old room. Looking out the window at the rampant signs of decay you would probably never know something akin to normalcy existed inside these walls, but there it was. Unlike the garish hovels popping up around it, the only strike against her new home was its age and exhausted nature. This place, this motel, was probably the last refuge anyone would expect of her. Jon might know, yet no one else had to.

How refreshing was it that her mother, not that she made it a habit of calling, would never have approved. Answer, thought Laurie, very refreshing. Even Dan, in the case that he tried to hunt for her out of misplaced chivalry, would never think to look here. At that thought in particular she could not decide if she was grateful or sorry, yet decided that no matter which, it was for the best. When she saw him again, it would be on her terms. It wouldn't be at the suggestion of Jon and it certainly wouldn't be driven by the thought of nuclear war. Perhaps then she could laugh and smile with the two Nite Owls, old and new, and feel like normal again.

Her chest filled with a pleasant calm, glinting like glass.

Here she could figure out how to pick up the pieces of her life. The prospect of being blown to bits as is wasn't welcome. A smile on her face, she glanced down to the key she hadn't realized she was still holding. The numbers etched into the tarnished metal stared back at her.

_Room 3006, Empire Motel_.

Yes, this would definitely do.

Grin still in place, the brunette calmly rose from the bed, the loops of her oversized purse still around her fingers. Heading for the dresser opposite the mattress, she shrugged off her coat and tossed it on one of the chairs. Always orderly thanks to her mother's chiding, she set about unpacking the spare clothes she had thought to bring. The drawers were thankfully all empty, no hidden surprises just waiting to be discovered. A couple pens lay scattered around in one, but that was all. Blouses were neatly folded and tucked into a drawer, jeans soon following. While it certainly was pungent, the heady scent of cedar was not unpleasant.

Considering that she had bought the room expecting bugs and discarded unmentionables, this was definitely the top of the rock as far as she was concerned. At the rate the clerk had charged her, Laurie had a feeling she had gotten one of the better rooms, not to mention probably cheated for it. No doubt the others would be peeling and sagging, but who was to say. Does an exhausted man complain about the cleanliness of his sheets? She smirked at the thought, knowing full well that she probably knew one or two who would. No names would be named, of course, but if she had to bet… Shaking her head, she stuffed her bag into one of the empty drawers.

Finished in no time at all.

Not that she cared, really. She had no 'hot date,' as her mother used to say. It was nearly eleven at night and she had nowhere to be. Nowhere except in bed and asleep, the voice of reason reminded her. After the past two days, that didn't sound like such a bad idea after all.

She moved to the bed and pulled down the covers before releasing her hair from its confines. Even after she had so deftly put them away, her pajamas would need to be pulled from the drawer and her current clothes slung over the chair. As her hands sunk into the shadowed recesses of the bureau and claimed her prize, she decided she would drop by Dan's tomorrow to show him she was alright.

In the meantime, she would sleep. With any luck the nightmares would stay away.

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The early autumn chill seemed to seep from the ground up. Clawing and biting, it tangled with the shadows in a hideous tableau, cold and indifferent to the suffering of man. This was the streets, a reservoir of all that was filthy in the world. Muggings in dark corners. The flash of a knife or the glint of a gun in the vague illumination of a streetlamp. Splash of blood, thick, red, oozing, on the brick wall as a body slides downward. Whores baring themselves like animals in heat to every passerby, rubbing against prospective clients. People huddled together on the sidewalk; a few of these will be frozen solid by the end of the year. The city shivered as one. The city screamed and rotted as one.

Causing the suffering of so many, the ice could not hurt man like man could. When it came to the race to the bottom, nature could not outstrip man in his lust for cruelty and pain. The steam that rose from the sewers was like the breath of the monster at the city's heart. Somewhere below his feet, it seethed, black and pulsing. The shrieks and keening of its victims filled the abandoned alleys and empty streets. The world shut them out.

_Found whore in alleyway. Knife pushed through gut. Looks recent, maybe half an hour. She still smelled of fornication and perfume, laid over the reek of blood. _

His shoes whispered over the pavement, dull and worn in the shifting pools of lamplight.

_The stench suits her. Disgusting._

His hands, pushed deep into dark pockets, clenched for a moment into fists. The steam from his breath trailed behind him before dissipating into the night. Hands relaxed.

_Saw second Silk Spectre with Dreiberg tonight. She is one more distraction to add to his list, one more chain. They went to see Hollis Mason and returned home, stayed on street talking. She checked later into a motel on Twentieth Street. Cannot tell if she has finally left Manhattan or is playing some sort of game._

At the end of the day, it probably didn't matter.

He wanted to say the affair was below his concern, that the streets and the mask killer were his first priority. If the daughter of that over-spent whore wanted to fool around, Manhattan could take care of his own girl. She wouldn't be the first woman to abuse and misuse the confidence of her lover. She wouldn't be the last. It was expected.

The gravel littering the sidewalk crunched beneath his feet, disturbing the eerie not-silence of Lower Manhattan. Icy wind muffled the cries of the streetwalkers and sex show hawkers three blocks behind him. An itch started inside his chest, one that could not be scratched. Irritation and resentment scuttled beneath his skin.

In a place he could not crack open and destroy, he felt the undeniable pull to learn more. Except for its effects on Daniel, he could not think of a more worthless inquiry. He hated it, this distraction.

A flash of movement in the shadows caught his eye, a gasp of surprise – female, young – quickly following.

He was spared having to think more on why.

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Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this. As anyone familiar with my style knows, I like dark, realistic characters and situations. There will be a few flashbacks of sorts later on to the Crime Busters era and perhaps a bit before. I hope I am keeping everyone within character, and don't worry, she still will interact with Dan as expected. I always just thought that she would want to exert her independence from her mother and Jon at least in this small way.

Please review! Points to those who do... In what ways can I improve this?


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you to all those who reviewed! I always like to personally thank people, but you all deserve a shout out here too. As I figure it, Rorschach's curiosity would come before any other sort of attachment could. Please review!

Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen.

Enjoy!

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Laurie never liked to smoke in bed.

She leaned heavily against the window frame, the first few rays of morning slipping between the cracks in the curtains. Outside and beyond her sight, surrounding buildings would obscure the full majesty of the sunrise, great hulking monoliths rising like tombs on the landscape. The very fact that even a trickle of sunlight could enter her room was almost a novel concept, her eyes so used to the windowless twilight of the research base. Her fingers gently came to rest against the dark red curtain, almost as if to pull it away and reveal the early risers on the street below. Thin lips parted and smoke wafted into the air, the taste of ashes and tar lingering on her tongue like a stolen kiss. Her hand fell back to her side, the curtain unmoved.

Cigarette held aloft, a curlicue of toxic smoke elegantly spiraling upwards to dissolve in the air, she sank slowly into the chair. The cushion didn't give as much as she'd expected, and she slumped over her knees.

Her night had not passed dreamless and calm, all her prayers for such going unheard. Familiar and yet distant images had seared the backs of her eyelids, slide after slide on a projector she was powerless to shut down. She dreamed that it was she, Laurie, who had stood for that Minutemen photo, the sheer yellow and black fabric of the overly feminine costume sticking to her skin like toxin. In this dream world it was she who fought the crime bosses of years ago and argued that night in her mother's bedroom, voice rising in desperation and anger. It was she who had returned to a nameless specter in the dark, lust and hope in feverbright, drunken eyes. She couldn't make out the face, could _never_ make out the face. Visage blurred she had become one with the shadows.

In the last few seconds of the dream there appeared a mirror, so like the kind her mother had kept beside her bed. Peering into its bottomless depths, instead of her own face she saw her mother's.

Snapping awake, she had raked in lungful after lungful of cold air. Her heart had thudded wildly in her ears, pounding in her temple like the insistent rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire. That had been at five this morning.

Her bed still lay rumpled and disheveled, left empty as she fought to scour the dream from her eyes. The safety and simple cleanliness of the bathroom had provided brief respite at first, cold, clear water running over pressure points. A semblance of calm had returned to her harried features. It wasn't the first time the nightmare had plagued her, though it had been one of the most vivid.

The cigarette now perched between her lips helped to cement the calm slowly diffusing through her limbs. This would be the… third time she had tried to stop? Fourth? She paused for a moment, trying to imagine the calendar in Jon's workroom. Whatever number it was, it broke nearly two months cigarette free, almost a record for her. Laurie couldn't tell if it meant she was getting better or just more desperate.

Knowing her, probably the latter. She had gone up against street thugs and mob bosses before the Keene Act, but a nightmare could reduce her to a sweaty mess and have her running for the white carton. Just great, Laurie, real great. What a hero you are. At least this proved she was right in not accepting Dan's offer, as little consolation as that provided. If he had seen her like this, she probably would have died of embarrassment. The great Silk Specter clinging to her cigarette like a life preserver, desperate for a rebound. Talk about acute shame.

But speaking of Dan, she'd try to catch him for breakfast. That sounded like a good idea, innocuous enough, and she had to admit she would rather eat with the chatter of a friend in her ears. Her eyes flicked to the clock above her bed, softly ticking the hours of the world and her life away.

Six-thirty.

If she took a shower now, she might get to his place within an hour. Sounded like a plan. It would also probably give her enough time to exorcise the demons still circling behind her eyelids, waiting for her to drop her guard. A good shower should wash the night terrors away.

Reaching for her dresser, she crushed her stub into the ash tray and walked to the bathroom.

Approximately thirty-five minutes later, she stood once more in the center of her room. Her bed covers were hastily arranged in a way that didn't immediately make her want to wince and her ash tray bore two more desiccated bodies than it had before. Key secure in her pocket, she quickly ran a hand through her still damp hair and pulled it back with a tie. Going out with a wet head was not only unpleasant but probably stupid as well, yet it couldn't be helped if she wanted to reach Dan before he left for the day. With a shrug, she figured she'd deal with the consequences later and snatched the Do Not Disturb sign from the dresser.

It oscillated slowly back and forth after she hung it on the handle, quickly tweaking the lock to its closed position. First this way then that way, swinging like a metronome to keep time with her steps down the shabby hallway. The glossy black words glinted in the yellow light from overhead like a silent warning: _Here be monsters_.

Leaving her room behind, she moved quickly down the stairs and swept into the half-empty lobby. An old woman sat in one of the chairs against the wall and read silently, and a window cleaner scrubbed at the streaks resolutely marring the motel front. No more impressive than it had been last night, a new clerk waited at the front desk and fixed her a blank stare as she passed. She nodded to him and pulled her bag closer, stepping into the early morning sunshine.

The street was already awake, almost bustling, businessmen and natives mingling on the pavement. Less than reputable shops, shuttered for the daylight hours, stood next to their honest counterparts and tried unsuccessfully to fade into the woodwork. Tenements and apartments, perched above both seedy and decent store alike, rose story after story above Twentieth Street. Newspaper vendors arranged their wares and tried to interest passerby, some still cutting open the stacks left unceremoniously at their feet. One such vendor stood almost directly in front of the motel, an older looking Middle-Eastern man sitting on a stool beside his stock. Figuring it wouldn't hurt, she headed for the stall.

The vendor looked on with disinterest as she plucked the Times from the rack and a five from her pocket. Money changed hands readily, what felt like a dollar or two in dimes deposited brusquely in her palm. She looked to him as if to ask for quarters, or even better dollar bills, but he only shook his head. Sighing – she inwardly winced, having been too late to stop that one – she closed her fingers over the coins and turned away.

Facing the motel once more, she tried to remember how best to get to Dan's brownstone from this part of the island. Her gaze unconsciously roved over the early morning foot traffic, a hold out from her crime fighting days. He was on Sixtieth, so probably the uptown six train, or maybe the one –

She paused.

A man sat to the side of the Empire's entrance, brown suit faded with age and caked with dust, his legs crossed before him. One of the city's many destitute, homeless. He seemed removed from the street and the individuals who walked it, almost as if society had chosen to forget him. By the way people paid him no mind, their eyes shying away like they would from a stain, it was clear they had. Her fingers tightened unconsciously over the coins in her fist and she began to walk towards him.

Next to him a sign was propped against the building, her eyes slowly revealing the words _The End is Nigh_ between the ever-changing kaleidoscope of passerby. Copper hair capped a face long and drawn, sharp and sunken eyes staring from within. He didn't look up until she was nearly on top of him, and his gaze pinned her to the sidewalk.

Not wanting to patronize, she dropped the coins at his feet and jerked her head in the direction of the sign. "You don't know how right you are." She wanted to smile, to show she was only joking, but couldn't force the emotion when it was all too true. The words hung between them on strings woven of silence and discomfort.

He didn't respond, and she didn't expect him to. Giving a slight nod of farewell, she drew her jacket closer and joined the stream of humanity snaking its way through New York. Daniel and breakfast awaited her, and she didn't want to miss either.

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The metal flashed in the sun as a coin rolled between his fingers.

He had neglected to pick up the rest, leaving it for someone worse off than he. There were plenty of them roaming the street at night – haunted, soulless. The city had swallowed all but their bodies and even now salivated over what was left. The second Silk Spectre's charity would be better used on them, if you counted a dollar or two as charity. Many wouldn't complain.

His sign bobbed against his shoulder and a head or two turned to follow its owner. Most flooded downtown at this time of the morning; as a pariah he sliced through the rush and it flowed around him. Stares bounced harmlessly off his faded suit. _She did not recognize Walter without his face. Kept mouth closed and watched as she wilted. _The handle of his sign was solid and smooth in his hand, worn by his calloused palms. It was a familiar weight. _Am not sure what she is doing. She doesn't seem to be either._

Fifteen feet ahead he could make out the dark-haired female, her pace sluggish and hesitant. Her walk had started out confident, only to lose the attitude somewhere in the subway tunnels. Without her boots she was whole inches shorter and blended into the crowd. A few men in suits – barely men at all, animals, snarling and spitting beneath human faces – leered at her as she paused to stare at window of televisions. His eyes locked on to their backs as they passed, raking across the fine material. He hung back.

This was the third time she had circled the block to pass this store.

_Don't know how she hasn't died yet if she regularly acts like this. Indecision brings death, and repetition is just as bad._

The past thirty minutes had found him following her discreetly, tiring of her mindless wandering. Up Fifth Avenue, across Sixty-First, down Lexington, over on Fifty-Ninth. Repeat. In all that time, he hadn't seen her look back once. So like a woman. Distracted. Weak. Unaware of the world around her, it was a wonder the mask killer had not dispatched with her already. She made a perfect target.

_She is circling Dreiberg's residence like a buzzard over a corpse_. _Very ineffectively, almost stupidly. _

He could just make her out up ahead, hair pulled back and holding onto her purse. Years had passed since he had last watched her through a crowd. Followed her. Some things had changed and others hadn't; she hadn't seen him then either.

_Now, she fears. _

What did she fear?

He could not answer that question. Looking at her, neither could she.

One hand crept into his pocket and dropped the dime inside, a slight tendril of curiosity taking the opportunity to burrow beneath his skin. It hooked into the muscle and pulled him almost unwillingly along when at last she began to walk again. Sixtieth came up on their right within minutes, and he prepared to pass by it once more. To his surprise, she turned down the shaded boulevard.

His sign bobbing on his shoulder, he followed.

-------------------

If Dan was anything, it was a creature of habit. Even in the face of the end of the world.

Such had been the label of friends, coworkers, professors, parents – the list continued on until eternity and in the end he was powerless to deny the accusation. His daily life was not spared, unfortunately, and indeed took its shape from the routine which had come to define his existence. So true to form, when he opened the door to find Laurie Jupiter hungry and smiling on his front stoop, he chose the Gunga Diner as their destination.

The waitress, her apron stained with hollandaise sauce and the remains of some little child's Spanish omelet, led them to a booth at the window. Dan shifted nervously, sprightly, and took his place across from Laurie with the most grace he could manage. He had to admit booths weren't exactly his forte, given his frame.

The brunette slipped into the small gap with all the elegance he could never muster. "So."

Seeming to realize how foolish that sounded, she flashed him a grin that registered like the flash of a photographer's camera in his mind's eye. Magazines had paid huge sums for a grin like that, for that show-stopping exuberance able to leap from the page. Distantly he wondered if anyone had ever paid for her photo.

Swallowing, he hesitantly returned the gesture, dismally aware of how his own paled in comparison. "So…" A nervous laugh tore from his throat. "You look like you ah, had a good night, Laurie."

"I did, yeah. The place I found was better than expected and not that expensive either. Slept well and rose bright and early." Her grin lost some of its brilliant wattage, but nevertheless remained cheerful and pleasant. Noticing that she had stepped out without any of her usual gloss, he had to hastily tear his gaze from her lips as the moments passed. And to think, they'd only been sitting for thirty seconds. Not good.

Dan crashed back to earth, suddenly remembering that she had been speaking. She was waiting for an answer to something – to how his own night was, that's right. He shrugged and struggled to assume an air of nonchalance, again, probably failing in the endeavor. "Oh, you know, same old. Was up pretty late so I started to work on a new paper, trying to get through the preliminary stuff, the boring stuff."

"Really? What on?" God bless her, he thought, she actually seemed genuinely interested. But then again, that was Laurie for you, always a master at navigating any conversation.

His gaze falling to the table, he reached up and absentmindedly adjusted his glasses. If he had been thinking straight, or in any other context, Dan probably would have either deferred the answer or fabricated something far more interesting. Hawk predatory preferences, the intelligence of owls, something, _anything_. As it was, a bit blinded and distracted, he had only replied what was in fact the truth, "The breeding and migratory patterns of hybrid _Vermivora pinus_." A small smile pulled at his lips, the faintest hint of embarrassment entering his features. "That's the Blue-winged Warbler."

An odd light entered her eyes and she leaned forward, almost conspiratorially. He caught a whiff of what might have been perfume. "Found anything interesting so far – an anomaly, perhaps?"

"No, I wish. They're pretty ordinary birds, don't do much really." He laughed then, some ridiculous image of warblers suddenly migrating to Northern Canada cropping up in his mind. "I'm only doing it because the Ornithology Society asked me to."

Nodding in understanding, she lowered her eyes to her menu as the waitress came and took their drink orders. Orange juice for him, a glass of water for her, no lemon. A pleasant silence reigned for a few minutes between them, the familiar sound of shuffling papers and the clink of glasses enough to replace conversation for at least a few moments. Armageddon could have been right around the corner, and there they were, breakfasting and chatting as if nothing was amiss. At last he looked up to see her flipping sightlessly through a few pages. A hint of a question shaded her brow, his own eyes carefully picking up on the sign; about to ask what the matter was, she beat him to it.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did." He smirked good-naturedly and Laurie shook her head. "But yeah, sure."

"You ever see that guy with the sign?"

He shrugged. "Lots of guys have signs in New York."

"Yeah, but this one says 'The End is Nigh,' something like that. Red hair, on the short side." She gazed at him steadily.

How strange, he mused, that she would ask about that hobo out of how many thousands. As far as Dan could tell, except for his flaming hair and silent prophecies of doom he was probably the least interesting of the bunch. Her visage was free from worry or distress, at least as far as Dan could tell, yet it was an odd inquiry nonetheless.

So as not to seem overprotective, he ceased his study of her features and returned to his own menu. Nodding, he perused the array of breakfast foods for sale even though he already knew what he wanted. "I've seen him around. He's harmless."

"You sure?"

Head jerking upwards, Dan's eyes narrowed with concern. That wasn't a good sign. "Why, did he say something, do something?"

A crystalline laugh left her mouth in reply and she waved one hand, almost literally brushing aside any reason for worry. "No, no, I was just curious. That's all. I've seen him around too." She grinned, adding, "In more than a few places."

Not exactly content with her answer but unwilling to push it, he leaned against the glossy backing of the booth. The waitress was heading towards their table, pen in hand and pad ready to take their order. "As long as you're sure…"

"I'm sure, Dan. Who are you, my mother?" She chuckled again, turning to face the thin, weary woman now looking down on her customers. If Laurie felt anything at all, she hid it well.

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A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope I got the characters right again, I tried. I always saw Walter as being a less vehement, minimalist version of Rorschach. The movie portrays this rather well, actually, given that they sound similar but the tone and diction is often a tad different. As for whether or not she was aware of being followed the entire time - well I shall leave that one up to you - as well as the circumstances of Rorschach's allusions.

Please review if you read! Brownies... brownie points... to those who do.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, especially my anonymous reviewers from the past two chapters: orange sparks (you are seriously amazing), 7Bones (yes, I couldn't resist the joke), Amelia2, anonymous, Daisy, and Jocelyn! If the events take longer to happen here than they do in the movie or GN, please don't kill me – I can't afford the rapid pace they do! I took a few slight liberties.

Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen or Yeats.

Enjoy!

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The street lay open like a sewer before him. Swollen with rain and carrying the refuse of humanity to their destinations, it stunk of the night's fornication and decay.

They were nothing but an endless parade of legs from his position, not even human. A parade of false appearances and the byproducts of corrupt competition, designer labels hid unwashed limbs and hidden scars. Shoes gilded feet that would never walk barefoot in the cold. His worn elevator shoes, a hole just starting in the left heel, formed a stark contrast to those on the move. He didn't bother to look up at the faces.

_Faces lie, covered in the taint of blighted souls and furtive sins. All different and all marked. Yet in the dark, they look the same. _

He didn't need to see a facade to see who it belonged to. Fine, expensive Italian leather shoes passed. A businessman glued to his cell phone, crushing hundreds of lives in his greed. Strappy high-heels. Some midtown slut going to work on Madison Ave. Sneakers, flip-flops. Tourists with their cameras and garish _I Love New York _dime a dozen t-shirts. Pitiful. They'd take their tours and see the sights, never any the wiser to how pathetic their own lives were. Like ants, like termites, they scuttled from trap to trap. But Walter saw, and Walter knew.

The crowd hid him in return.

From where he sat in the mouth of the alleyway, he had an excellent view of the diner. The buildings blocked the glare of the rising sun, and the window was smooth and clear. It provided a glimpse into a different world, splayed in Technicolor across thin glass. A world that was so unreal, so removed from his own, it might as well have been on television.

Through the gaps in the pedestrians' legs he watched the two figures in their silent and distant animation. Dreiberg was muted, understated, Walter did not see him – instead his gaze fell to her. She raised a fork to her lips, laughing at something her companion said, probably trying not to choke. Her dark hair whipped messily and her shoulders moved as she shook in amusement, only to suddenly lean forward into full view. Surprised by the sight, he unconsciously mimicked the action, observing silently as she took hold of Dreiberg's wrist – joyful, talkative. Walter's brow furrowed.

_She is always laughing, smiling, careless. Troubled by her apparent lack of fear and concern, even when she knows what could happen. Her laughter blinds her as it did the Comedian. _

Some would-be Good Samaritan dropped a tattered dollar bill near his knee and blocked his view for a moment. Walter was tempted, but didn't so much as spare it a glance. The folded green linen trembled untouched in the breeze.

_What does she see that is so funny?_

He couldn't answer that, but he was dismayed by the urge to find out writhing in his skin. He shouldn't want to know, there was probably little to know. She reeked of compensation and lying smiles. Of anxiety for all the wrong things. Of cigarettes. She looked like she hadn't slept, only foolishly pretended not to care.

_Such is woman's nature. Lying, misguided, and undependable_. Rorschach knew that.

Yet still she writhed beneath Walter's skin.

He could see it in his mind's eye like a crime unfolding. Like the telegraphed punches of a fight. Sitting across from Dreiberg, her eyes would be alive with some joke, a brightness. You'd get the feeling the joke was obvious, simple, easy and wonder why you too didn't think it so funny. When she had walked into the shop, the light and smog of the city still clinging to her – the first time, years ago when there was only Walter – he had mistaken such a look for fever.

Only she wasn't sick. And if she was, the cause of her disease had followed her inside.

A voice, shrill and whining, filled the shop as the first Silk Spectre breezed in. Her dress was waiting on a broken coat hanger in the back, a gaudy, ugly thing, yellow taffeta. He had had the urge to take it out back to burn on more than one occasion, his fingers itched to do so. No doubt it would have been a public service.

He was rarely allowed out front, he can't even remember why he was that day. But all the same he stood in the doorway behind the counter, and watched as the whore wandered off. Distracted by price tags and fashion, she left her daughter to stand there awkwardly. The young thing that would become the second Silk Spectre laughed with the cashier, politely, discreetly. She seemed impatient to laugh, as if it were the only distraction she had. Forgive my mother, she said without words. Forgive me. I am nothing like her.

The cashier hadn't listened, but Walter had.

Looking around in misplaced curiosity, her eyes had passed over him. He avoided the febrile gaze. Bright. Young and healthy. Walter Kovacs wasn't anything to her, or at least he wasn't then. Then she had paid for her purchases, the whore soon returning, and he had watched her leave without a word.

Now he watched her once more, years later, and couldn't decide exactly what he saw. With the mask killer still polluting the streets with his presence, she would probably be the first picked off. No matter that she was a capable fighter, she did not take the threat seriously and would die for it. _Will talk to Dreiberg tonight_. _Not eager to see her guts strewn across pavement if Laurie will not take heed._

Laurie.

"_I have a name, you know, try using it."_

His mouth thinned into a line, gaze flicking to the couple in the window. She was no longer chuckling, engrossed in conversation and drinking her water. Dreiberg would watch over her for now. It was time to go. Pocketing the dollar, his fingers brushed against her dime still sitting inside his coat. He scowled and snatched what looked like a section of the _New Frontiersman_ fluttering past on the pavement, beginning to walk away.

---------

Laughter, however real, had made her thirsty.

Swallowing a sip of water, the glass cool and heavy in her hand, she placed it back on the table. Her throat burned with the remote pain of thwarted tears.

"I can't believe he did that. Why didn't you mention it before?" Laurie tilted her head with an affable expression, scouring Dan's face for an answer to an answerless question. It would be like trawling a gaping abyss; there were no answers when it came to Rorschach, he did as he saw fit for reasons a normal individual probably wouldn't grasp. Not that she was exactly normal, she had to admit, as much as she wanted to be. Concealing such thoughts, she added flippantly instead, "Stealing your beans is positively criminal."

Dan shrugged, his boyish features tinged with mirth. The story had genuinely been funny after the fact, though probably not at the time, she figured. "I just didn't think it would matter. After all, I mean, I replaced the lock the next day. You saw it."

"Yeah, I did." Her fork found its way once more into her hand, pushing around the remains of a vegetable omelet. The silverware glinted in the sun, the peppers and onions spilling like entrails onto the scratched plate. "I didn't think friends went breaking into friends' houses."

He followed suit, tentatively probing the ripped remnants of a pancake with one syrup-laden knife. His eyes fell to the tabletop in a clear tell of nervousness. "Well define friends. We're former partners, sure, but friends? I don't think Rorschach knows what that word means anymore."

A grimace touching the corner of her lips, she tried to smile but found the act impossible. He had so succinctly encapsulated what she had been thinking minutes earlier, regaled by his story of the masked man breaking into his house at one in the morning to steal cold beans and berate him for retiring. As amusing as it was, the brutality and dark criminality to his actions could not be ignored for long.

Not that she was exactly on good terms with the vigilante either – a specter that haunted those few dreams not devoted to her mother or the fear of death. She could claim all she wanted it was because he was ruthlessly violent, he smelled, he hadn't the nerve to show his face, yet those were little more than superficial excuses. It was the way he made her feel like a failure, a puppet, that made her scorn him, the way that mask when turned upon her made her question everything she had ever believed about fighting crime. He was the free man who came to taunt the one still in chains, the man so convinced of his own truth he refused to acknowledge another's. It was in the way he had always brushed her aside, seeing her for the scared young woman playing dress-up in her mother's clothes she was.

She liked to think she hid all of that from the world, but somehow, he perceived it anyway.

Sighing, she laid her fork down and caught a glimpse of the morning's paper still resting on the seat beside her. Dan clearly didn't want to speak more of Rorschach, and neither did she at this point. He was a passive Jets fan, she knew, she could always talk about their rival's game the day before. "Ten bucks says the Giants won yesterday."

He snorted. "Fifteen says they lost."

"Let's see what the paper has to say, shall we?"

The paper unfolded in her hands, though instead of revealing the score from last night's anticipated game, it exposed the enraged visage of her former lover. Her mouth opened slightly in surprise, brain refusing to comprehend the thick, black type stretching like a death sentence across the first page. _Dr. Manhattan Leaves Planet after Cancer Probe_.

Dan leaned forward, attempting to peek over the top of the paper. "What, they lost horribly?" She didn't respond, his voice a buzz in her ears as she continued to read. "You don't have to pay you know, it's okay. I was just kidding."

Wetting her lips, she struggled to work through the sandpaper lining her mouth and throat. This couldn't be true, if it was it spelled disaster in all the red-orange shades of a blooming mushroom cloud. Or worse, several thousand mushroom clouds and the rising dust of all that was left of the human race. Her voice was barely above a whisper, etched with smoke and fear.

"Jon's gone."

Dan made an attempt to grasp the paper, but she pulled it away. "What do you mean Jon's gone?" She gazed into the worried brown eyes, feeling her own control begin to slip.

"He left the planet last night, some muckraker told him he causes cancer." Outwardly she remained calm, but inwardly her mind spiraled in a thousand different directions. Dear God, she had no way of contacting him if indeed he had left, and knowing Jon, he'd head for Mars or Pluto rather than deal with the turbulence of mankind. After all, what was there to give him pause, now that she had left him?

The thought sickened her.

Their eyes locked, and both thought of the Russians waiting with their tanks on the Afghan border, the nauseous tableau of war flashing on their lids. With the war deterrent traipsing around, hiding, somewhere in space, nuclear annihilation could not be far around the corner. As selfish as it was, Laurie could not help but think of the infinite list of things she never did, the countless things she failed to do, and worse yet, the opportunity to make amends disappearing in a rush before consuming light. She thought of her mother out in California, leaching off her daughter and living in the ever-brightening flare of the past. Was she the lucky one in this? She thought of Jon, wandering through stardust and god knew what else, living forever in the inky vacuum of space and perhaps never again to hear another human voice. Was _he _the lucky one here? And what of Rorschach, prepared to die and without emotion?

Glancing out the window, Laurie swallowed the bile threatening to claw its way up her throat. People passed by, ignorant or uncaring, faces of all shapes and colors free from the worry ripping through her insides. A memory dredged up from the dark corners of her mind brought with it a few lines from a poem she had had to read in high school English, the author escaping her at the moment. As if she were again seventeen and sitting ignorantly in that tiny desk, she could hear her teacher's grim intonation in her head –

_Surely some revelation is at hand_

_Surely the second coming is at hand._

_The darkness drops again; but now I know  
That twenty centuries of stony sleep  
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,  
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,  
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?_

Whoever it was that had put those words to paper years and years ago, he probably had no idea how right he was. This prophet who spoke from beyond the grave, his eyes withered to dust and his bones the only recipients of his praise, was right for all the wrong reasons. He was, Laurie reflected grimly, like the bum she had seen on the sidewalk earlier that morning. The bum that had followed her through the city to Dan's brownstone, his red-hair and pale visage visible in the window reflections and storefront mirrors.

Was the end, as he said, truly nigh?

A sound to her right jerked her from the well of her thoughts. The waitress appeared suddenly at their table, asking if everything was alright. Her apron was stained afresh, a pot of coffee in one hand.

_No_, Laurie wanted to whisper, _everything is not alright_. Nevertheless she kept the thought to herself and ordered an Irish coffee, ignoring the way Dan's eyebrows rose towards his hairline. The whiskey and brown sugar would prove most welcome in quelling the turmoil taking hold of her stomach. That and a cigarette once she returned to her room, the white carton still tucked inside one of the bureau drawers.

Undoubtedly seeing the darkness in her expression, Dan cleared his throat.

"So…" His tone was soft, the word echoing the manner in which she had begun this conversation only an hour before. The mirth that had characterized the early morning was gone, dissipated like mist on the morn. Oh Dan, always trying to cheer her up. She barked out a laugh, returning to the familiar cover that had served her well half of her life.

"Heavy."

"No kidding."

The waitress returned with her coffee, looking just as weary as she had when the shift began. Porcelain clinked softly against saucer and Laurie gripped the handle, raising the steaming liquid topped with whipped cream to her lips. It burned the soft tissues of her mouth, but she welcomed the feeling all the same; it trumped the scalding of sorrow and regret, the ashes of false smiles on her tongue.

They sat there, quiet and shifting, having run out of things to say in the destruction lurking just beyond their sight. Dan fiddled with his napkin, his fork, then the sugar packets, his brow furrowed as he searched vainly for conversation. She did not fidget, barely breathed even; sip after sip the cup slowly lost its contents, the dark liquid running like a stream down her throat. Five minutes later the cup came to rest once more on its saucer.

It was definitely time to go, time to think.

Folding her napkin carefully, she laid it on the table and reached for the ten in her pocket. He saw what she was doing and waved it away, murmuring that he would get the bill. His face looked so crestfallen she almost caved and stayed in the quickly stifling diner, yet knew he deserved more than her grim and silent thoughts.

"I've had a wonderful time this morning, Dan. No, I really have. It's great to see you."

Grinning, she tried to reassure him; the sudden chasm between them was not his fault, nor hers. They both needed a day to themselves, she reasoned, time to figure out their places in the world and how best to face this crisis. After, they could return to what some might call normal, even if in name only.

Her coat and purse gathered in her arms, she gently took his hand and squeezed. She couldn't bring herself to do more, couldn't or wouldn't give him what he wanted. Nevertheless he was a good man, and she hoped that if they survived the next few weeks, he might find someone as loyal and worthy. That was the least he deserved.

She, however, did not merit the same.

Disentangling herself from the booth, she walked to the door and struggled not to think of the man, the opportunity, she was leaving behind. This wasn't what she needed, and for once, she would go with what was good for her instead for another. If she only had a week or two left, why not?

Her shoulder fell against the purple entranceway and pushed into the chilly morning. The sun fell pleasantly to the pavement, teenagers walking to school now dotting the crowd and swelling the foot traffic further. It was only eight or eight-thirty, the entire day stretched ahead before her; the idea of heading towards Bryant Park came to mind, it didn't seem like a bad one. Walking almost aimlessly along the sidewalk, Dan left her thoughts and another took his place: the man who had doggedly followed her that morning. She was not frightened – she wasn't, she repeated to herself – merely a touch wary and more than curious.

Perhaps he was Rorschach's mask killer, surveying a potential target?

She snorted in disbelief, drawing her jacket closer and picking a random direction. News of Jon's absence was making her as paranoid as the masked vigilante now, wasn't that sad. The guy was probably hungry, bored and merely wanted more money from a generous stranger; if she saw him again, she resolved to buy him a hotdog, fruit, whatever was in the nearest vendor cart. And then again, Dan had said he wandered all over the city, this could have been a one-time occurrence.

Well, whatever it was, she thought to herself, he didn't seem to be around now.

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A/N: The quote is from "the Second Coming" by Yeats, about the end of the world, though I cut out a few lines in between. It always seemed more than appropriate given the times. And Laurie does worry; she just wears a constant façade to the contrary. She always seems bright-eyed, but a little too bright-eyed, wouldn't you agree? It is as if she is just overcompensating for her own pain with cheerfulness and cigarettes. I felt that given her parentage (even if it is secret to her at this point), it would be grimly appropriate that she fools herself through laughter and false composure. I also couldn't resist the irony of having her think Walter was the masked killer, though she doesn't take this idea seriously. So yes, she knew she was being followed, but not much else.

PLEASE review! Again, brownie points to those who do!


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thank you to my reviewers, as well as my anonymous ones: orange sparks, Amelia2, and anonymous! Rorschach and Laurie face to face! This is the tipping point, a little more romance from here on out. I honestly want to hear your thoughts on this one.

Disclaimer: I do not own Watchmen.

Enjoy!

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She was here, right now, in his kitchen, sitting at his table.

And what's more, she was smiling up at him, expecting him to reply. Half an hour had passed since she had rung his bell, and Dan still found his jaw dropping in surprise.

After the episode at the Gunga Diner, the former Nite Owl had figured that seeing her again within twenty-four hours was at best a statistical improbability, if not an impossibility altogether. When she had needed support he had offered nothing but a stammered conversation starter, unable to find the words he'd known she'd wanted to hear. And then he'd sat there, playing with his cutlery, as she roasted in whiskey-drenched silence. Sat there as she politely excused herself and headed for the door. Sat there as she walked down the street, turned out of sight – and yet, he continued to do what he did best.

Sit and wait.

He had paid the bill and trudged home to his brownstone, doing everything short of slamming his head against the nearest wall in frustrated shame. His afternoon had passed dismally in a sort of stupor, flipping sightlessly through migration guides and possessed by a torpor he hadn't felt since he first retired. Some fun day, wasn't it, when the world could end in the next two weeks. Slouched in his desk, staring at the wall, he'd expected a lonely dinner for one and a half-hearted phone call the next morning.

Only she'd decided throw him a curveball.

Looking at her now, he couldn't say why she'd shown up at eight as if nothing had happened. Boredom, a voice in the back of his mind whispered, probably pure boredom. Dan couldn't exactly blame her.

He cleared his throat and tried to remember what she had asked; the way her dark blue sweater clung to her was almost distracting, but he did try. "No, I've never met the man."

"Oh, then you're lucky." He watched as she absentmindedly flicked hair from her eyes. "He congratulated Jon a few times, so I used to tag along. Seriously, you know what they say about him? Believe it. Nixon has to be one of the most foul-tempered guys on the planet. You think you see rage and psychos on the street, you should meet this guy." She chuckled, shaking her head. "Why'd we vote for him?"

Bending down to pull a pot from the cabinet, he straightened and glanced over his shoulder. Green beans and carrots were now on the menu, as far as he knew those were acceptable additions to chicken. "Speak for yourself, I didn't."

"Really?"

"He didn't much appeal to me, I think I disagree with him ninety percent of the time. Of course, Rorschach said it's because of my," Dan paused, trying not to laugh at the voice popping up inside his head, "liberal and intellectual leanings. Or was it weaknesses?"

A grim laugh tore from her lips, ricocheting around his cabinetry to imbed itself squarely in his chest. "Yeah, he would say something like that."

"But Nixon's pretty ensconced now, nothing we can do about it. And hey, can I interest you in some dinner?" Swallowing, he tried to conceal the stupid boyish hope no doubt infusing his features, so as to make him look less pathetic when she finally said no. "I know it's late, sorry. I have chicken in the fridge, but if you'd like something else…"

"Absolutely, chicken would be wonderful. Thank you, Dan. I'm actually pretty hungry." A gentle smile in place, she rose from the chair and headed towards the sink. Taking some soap, she scrubbed her hands beneath hot water. "Let me help you."

Almost frightened by his good luck, he quickly shook his head. It was enough that she wasn't feigning a full stomach and already heading for the door. "No, no, that's not necessary. I can take care of it."

"You sure – want me to cut the chicken?"

A towel folded on the counter found its way into her hands as she turned towards him, her face so different from the way she had closed up on him earlier that morning. She looked relaxed, happy even. Or at least he hoped she was happy, praying she wasn't just pretending for his sake.

"No really, it's…" She clearly wanted to be involved, probably desperate for normalcy. He thought for a moment, remembering his futile search for canned vegetables in the kitchen. "Well I guess, would you mind getting a can of green beans from downstairs? Or carrots, or whatever, if there isn't one."

"Sure, no problem." She headed for the basement door, stopping just at the lip of the stairs and turning back to face him. "So where should I look?"

"Oh yeah, right. Sorry." Well didn't he feel foolish; she'd never been beyond the basement stairs before. The urge to call her back and fetch the cans himself entered his mind, only he felt that would probably prove more awkward than necessary. "There's some shelves to the left of the stairs with cans and bottles. And the light is at the bottom of the stairs, just flip the big switch."

"Alright, be back in a second."

Leaving the door open, she began to descend, and Dan couldn't help but catch the lovely view on her way down. Struggling to control the blush no doubt working its way up his cheeks, he made for the refrigerator and tried to go to work.

----------

Her footfalls echoed dully in the stairwell, keeping time with the thudding of her heart.

Holding onto the banister, Laurie watched the movements of her shadow on the stairs and could just make out the light box he'd mentioned. A faint odor, not necessarily unpleasant, crept upwards from the basement to reach her nose, a concoction that reminded her of the sea and the mustiness of books. If darkness had a smell, and sometimes she almost believed it did, this would be it. Familiar, neutral, the scent of the basement in the house she'd lived in as a child, only threatening until she realized it made an ideal hiding spot during her mother's arguments. Tilting her head to the side, she reached out slowly to flip the switch.

She blinked.

The basement was more cavern than bottom floor, she noticed, built into the maintenance tunnels riddling the city if she had to guess. Only the actual structure of the room wasn't the most interesting thing about it, indeed its contents commanded far more presence and curiosity. A crate here, a plane there, all half-cloaked in darkness and touched only lightly by the lights overhead. Recessed into the wall and glowing faintly was the costume she hadn't seen in years, a sight for sore, post-Keene Act eyes. Though the light was dim at best she could still make out the layer of dust lining the cowl and shoulders, arguably better than the several layers lying clearly on the gadgets and tarps scattered everywhere. It didn't surprise her in the least that Dan had kept his tools and his costume – it only surprised her that he had been able to afford all of it in the first place.

But ah, right. Dan. She came down here for something. A can of green beans.

As intriguing as her friend's basement was, she couldn't afford to gawk when there could be chicken sizzling in a skillet upstairs. Her manners and her stomach simply wouldn't allow it.

Continuing the rest of the way down the stairs, Laurie was almost thankful she'd decided to come tonight. It was on a whim after a day spent wandering the city's parks, from Bryant to Washington to Central itself, swathed in fatalism and her old churning thoughts. Autumn colors had failed to cheer her, the cries of hotdog vendors and children on the playground bringing little more than a slight rise to her lip. Boredom had lined her motions as the sun sank towards the horizon, aimlessness she couldn't stand driving her around in circles.

She had thought she wanted to get away to think about the end of the world and her part in it. Then she had realized that if it truly _was_ the end of the world, why was she wandering around and feeling sorry for what she could not change? Jon left, that was that. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't her fault that she couldn't be the savior of the savior, that she was a regular human woman with all the regular faults of her people.

The thought had taken seven hours to fully blossom, but it brought a modicum of peace.

That, she figured, was about all she would ever get and so took it gladly. Somehow it had driven her back to Sixtieth Street, to the brownstone of Nite Owl II.

And so now she stood in his basement, staring at several shelves piled high with cans and bottles of laundry detergent. Lots of carrots, some beans, some peas, no green beans. Deciding that he wouldn't mind, she shifted through the cans and scrutinized the labels in the dim lighting. For a man so usually organized, it was odd they weren't arranged by type and alphabetized already. She shrugged, setting aside a can of carrots; chaos was found in every life, no matter how ordered.

Bracing herself against the wall, Laurie slipped one arm between two of the shelves and attempted to excavate the cans at the back. One found its way into her hand and she carefully extracted her limb, hoping it was what she needed. She brought the can closer to her eyes and turned the label towards her.

More carrots, figures. Sighing, she reasoned she liked carrots and honestly didn't want to keep looking; they would have to do. Her prize clutched in one hand, she turned.

Starting slightly, she bit back a sharp intake of breath. The rim of the can cut fiercely into her palm, almost having been sent rocketing through the head of the man standing a few feet away. She tried to cover her embarrassment by saying the first thing that came to mind.

"Where the hell did you come from?"

Great, Laurie, great, that was pitiful. She endeavored to draw herself up and validate the question, as if she wasn't wearing a cotton sweater and clutching a can of carrots. As if he wasn't standing there, stock still and coiled, the shifting ink on white obscuring his face the only movement he offered. This man, diffuse light dappling his jacket and creating further shadows on the mask, did not alarm her.

He didn't answer her question or offer any explanation, only clenched his fists. His voice reminded her of the harsh grind of metal. "You've gotten slower."

"And I see you're just as rude. I was preoccupied, Rorschach." No, this man did not alarm her, and he _definitely_ didn't make her want to assert that she wasn't a failure. Nonetheless he clearly didn't believe her, and she didn't want to deal with his critique at the moment.

Sighing, she ran a hand through her hair and released another breath. Her heart probably wouldn't calm for hours with her luck, the image of him materializing from the darkness burned on her lids. "Whatever. Dan's upstairs, I'm assuming you want to talk to him."

She didn't even bother to check if he was following, merely mounted the steps and flicked off the lights. After a moment Laurie fancied she could hear the whisper of elevator shoes on wood, the slight creaking of the stairway betraying even his slight form. It was like Orpheus and Eurydice coming out of Hades, she mused, only she was Orpheus and it probably wouldn't have pained her heart at all to turn around and discover he wasn't there. At this point she might have preferred it, because if she didn't know Rorschach to be as humorless as the sun, he probably would have been laughing at her.

For a moment, the doorway bright and large before her, she almost wanted to turn around. She didn't exactly know what she'd say, something along the lines of not expecting an attack in Dan Dreiberg's basement, but wisely chose to keep going. Laurie might not have been able to decide her own words, but she certainly knew what his would be.

Her throat burned with unsaid thoughts as she climbed the last stair and entered into the bright light of the kitchen. Later, she would burn with the belated eloquence of the inarticulate.

-----------------

The kitchen was far too bright.

After the darkness of the streets, the basement, the lamp overhead burned his retinas. His face provided little aid, the transparency he needed in fighting betraying him in Dreiberg's claustrophobic little room. Nevertheless the discomfort was something Rorschach barely felt. Something so mundane belonged more in the world of Walter than in his.

He surveyed the kitchen he had only glimpsed before in the dark. The former Nite Owl stood over the stove with a wooden spoon in his hand, pushing pieces of meat around in a pan. A pot bubbled on one of the burners. Dreiberg had, in his absence, hit a new low.

_A man, cooking while a woman stands nearby. Something almost twisted, unnatural, to it_.

The second Silk Spectre had closed the basement door and laid the can to rest on the counter, turning to lean against the edge. Unleashing a glare upon the clearly unwanted intruder, her eyes uncannily found his own. In her blind resentment she bored into what she could not see, burning what he didn't know could burn. His hands burrowed into his pockets, clenching and unclenching almost without his control. Even if Walter could never hold the gaze of a woman, Rorschach could, would, and did. She finally broke the gaze, though he had the feeling it wasn't in defeat.

"Hey Dan, look who's here." Despite her flippant words, she didn't sound in the least amused. She crossed her arms, and he knew the petulance stemmed from his comment before.

_Said nothing but the truth. Women can never accept it, even when their lives depend on it._

His former partner turned, surprise written into the fibers of his body. If he hadn't heard them both, he was more of a lost cause than Rorschach had originally thought. The young-looking face broke into a grin, but any genuine warmth trembled and died within moments to his eyes. He didn't entertain the notion that it might have been merely his own paranoia. "Well hey, Rorschach, isn't this a surprise. How're you doing?"

Keeping his mouth resolutely closed, he waited for intelligence to kick in behind Dreiberg's eyes. A few moments were all it took. Pleasantries were the unnecessary creations of a privileged few.

"Laurie," the flabby failure turned towards the woman he was 'entertaining,' "would you mind giving us a few minutes of privacy? I'm sorry, it won't take long."

Straightening stiffly, she nodded and flashed one last glance in his direction. It failed to do any damage this time, bouncing off his coat. With that, she walked down the hall and into the living room. Rorschach could hear her fading steps.

Daniel watched her go, something akin to sadness warring with composure on his face. Finally setting down the spoon, his former partner took a few steps in his direction and stopped. The words seem to stick to the walls of his throat, but he got them out eventually. "I don't see you for months, years, and you turn up twice in three days."

Rorschach brushed the comment aside, any direct reply obvious at best. "Wanted to warn you."

"Warn me about what? You already told me about the 'mask killer.'" The silent _what is it now? _hung between them in the air. Dan, however, was too polite to say it aloud and merely stood there.

Grunting, he swept that aside too. If Dreiberg chose to see a warning of peril as a nuisance, he could. The thing inside him that didn't want to see her disemboweled on some side street, a common courtesy, kept him from leaving. "It's about her." He inclined his head towards the living room, succeeding in waking Dan from his naïve daze.

"Wait – Laurie? You think she's in danger?"

"She's in as much danger as any of us. More. She's careless."

Dan's face screwed up in confusion. "No she's not –"

"She is. Watch out for her if you don't want to see her dead."

The other man half-shrugged, almost as if he didn't know what to say. Helpless. Sickening. "I'm doing the best I can. What would you have me do? She refuses to stay here with me, and won't even tell me where she is. Rorschach, she's really a good fighter, she's not powerless. I can't make her accept aid when she doesn't need any."

He walked to the edge of the kitchen, his elevator shoes coming just shy of the carpet in the hallway. He didn't go any further. "She needs it. She just doesn't want it."

Daniel sighed, leaning against the sink. "How do you suggest I change that?"

Rorschach didn't answer, already certain that as much as he would have preferred to, he couldn't leave this up to Dreiberg. The man had lost much in the years of his retirement and was more child now than crime fighter. If she was attacked, it meant war on all of them. If they let one fall, it set a dangerous precedent. Dreiberg couldn't see that. He couldn't see it meant more than one foolish woman's wishes.

A sound issued from the living room – someone getting up from a chair – and Rorschach swiftly stepped from the doorway. The second Silk Spectre emerged seconds later, none too pleased, and passed through the spot he had just occupied. Her features were darkened by an inner thunderhead.

She glanced in his direction as she passed between the two silent men. "Listen, I just wanted a glass of water –"

"Leaving anyway."

Stopping short, her eyes narrowed. "Well then, let me show you out." Walking quickly to the basement door, she reached for the handle, determined to have the pleasure of showing him all but forcefully out.

"Not needed." He was closer, and reached for the handle. Their hands brushed.

By reflex, he pulled back as if stung. Apparently not seeing the problem but sensing it in him, she retracted her hand pensively.

He could feel her eyes on his back as he headed quickly down the stairs. Questioning.

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A/N: Thank you for reading! I tried to vary how I wrote Daniel and Laurie, longer and more fluid sentences, compared to the short, succinct narrative of Rorschach. I intended it to get shorter as he became more agitated at the end. I figured Dan, being a bachelor, would at least know how to cook simple things. Also, I sincerely hope you liked his section and everything within it, please tell me what you think!

This the tipping point, a little more romance from here on out.

PLEASE REVIEW!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry it has been so long, my life has been quite tumultuous. I would appreciate any tips! Thanks to everyone who reviewed: Heidi, blackbird, k.a., Willow-Bee the Cat, AEJ, Supaslim, Akito Souma, Fritz Will Get You, tbelle1234, orange sparks, Amelia2, pride1289, sweet-taboos, megumisakura, soaringphoenix86, Ice Dragon3, MK08, Mournsong, bruwench, and everyone else who so kindly reviewed!

Disclaimer: I don't own Watchmen.

Enjoy!

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The door closed behind him, releasing a pained cry of protest. It lingered in the hall with the dust and the dirt, neglecting to follow him inside. Children's cries added to the cacophony, now rising, now falling, bastard children swarming behind thin slabs of wood. They cried for food and some corner of his mind could not help but understand their pain. At least thinking on that meant he didn't have to think about other things. His stomach roiled enough as it was.

There was a reason he didn't like returning here. Rorschach often entertained the notion of never doing so. Walter, however, had to sleep sometime, even if it was in this hovel. It was safer than the streets. Almost as cheap too.

The few cans of who knew what he had hastily grabbed from Dreiberg's basement cut into his hands, icy and unyielding to his now gloveless fingers. The chill of old night had leached all feeling from the digits, leaving them with a dull throbbing sort of ache Walter couldn't wait to be rid of. Placing the cans on the small stretch of scratched countertop, barely worthy of the title of kitchen, he reached for the faucet. Numbed fingers prodded the cold metal.

Lukewarm water, probably laced with fluoride – _unfit to drink. Disgusting. Make it quick_ – gurgled noisily from the narrow spout. It warmed gradually, unable to get any hotter, and he put his hands beneath. Walter had weaknesses the face and coat stashed in a nearby alleyway would never understand. Frozen hands were clumsy hands, and he could not afford that. Washing one's hands, however, was an essentially misguided activity. No matter how he scrubbed, the filth of the streets would remain, oozing from his fingers like taint. So he wore gloves, to keep off that which water could not, far smarter than those who touched and licked the dirt from their skin. But even gloves couldn't keep out everything.

_Not worth thinking on. Just finish already_.

At last feeling returned to his flesh, still ruddy with cold, and he shut off the water. A rag he'd found on the street somewhere lay next to the sink, stained with dirt but obviously some sort of fancy material. Handkerchief, a gentleman's maybe at one point. Picking it up, he dried his hands quickly, not liking the way the fabric whispered over his flesh. It made him think of luxury, wanton. Expensive and forgotten waste, left lying on the street after –

No. He dropped the 'rag,' resolved that it would be thrown out in the morning. Walter had spent the night trying to purge his mind of such thoughts; returning to them was out of the question.

It was difficult to say what sickened him more, the weakness of the flesh itself or that his thoughts kept returning to it all night anyway. The stomach placed unfortunately in his body churned, but not with hunger, and food wasn't worth eating in such a state. He passed by the pitiful array of cans and headed for the mattress on the floor a meter or two away, mind struggling on the very human and very revolting task of not vomiting where he stood. Shoes were kicked off and tossed to the side; it was too cold and too pointless to take off anything else.

He'd worked all night. Walked endlessly to barricade his mind, fought like a demon when called upon. His side still ached distantly from a punch that had surprisingly landed, yet it didn't slow his movements. The bruise and throbbing in his fingers acted like a life raft, keeping him afloat above the nauseous sea of refuse beneath.

Lowering himself slowly to the stained and lumpy mattress, he reached blindly for the tattered sheet. It laid cast off from the last time he had used it days ago, left like the burial shroud in the tomb. Walter laid back, only a sorry excuse for a pillow there to catch his head, and closed his eyes.

Only to open them again seconds later.

The ceiling above bore the familiar designs of water stains, crop-circles etched into the cheap tile the tenement builder had used to cut costs. Soot from the room's previous occupant blackened a few patches of beige material, the black tar of cigarettes and cigars enshrined for every insomniac to see.

_Wonder if he burned in bed, went up in a blaze of smoke_. _Probably. That, or died from suffocation in each little white carton_.

Tamping down the painful ache in his stomach, he blinked slowly.

_She smokes. Laurie._

Closing his eyes, he observed on the backs of his lids unbidden images of the slim little cylinder between her fingers, smoke rising in lethal coils from the end. He had smelled the toxic smoke on her clothes; as strong as it was, he wished the scent had been stronger.

Rorschach had gone to Dreiberg's with a clear goal in mind, of informing his former partner of a new lead he had found on the mask killer. A few trips to seedy back-alley bars had been enough to unearth a few names, and he had seen a man closely resembling Moloch at the funeral the other night. He would have followed the man then, but she had gotten in the way.

Why? Rorschach hadn't been able to answer. Walter almost could, but he wouldn't. It was now another missed opportunity, another addition to a list far longer than he would have liked.

Walter flipped over onto his side, trying to close his ears to the shouts outside his doorway and the screams inside his head.

And she had been there tonight.

He hadn't expected her to return so soon, hadn't expected to tread the silent walk down the tunnel only to see her form at the end. It was surreal. It was wrong. She had stood there, indecisive, half-cloaked in shadow; had he wanted to, he could have dispatched with her there so easily. The thought had sent wrath burning through his veins, that she would lay down her guard during such treacherous times was unthinkable. He had only said the truth.

A woman shrieked somewhere down the hall, her voice riddled with anger and hatred. No doubt it was the whore who lived at the end of the corridor, her shrill and raucous voice his nightly lullaby whenever he returned to this hellhole. She would go on shrieking until she drank herself into a stupor, he knew.

Now, listening to the curses and virulence, he wished that Laurie was like her. It would make everything so much easier, and return order to the thoughts where order had always reigned. Whores didn't take up any of his time.

The only problem was that his usual method of dealing with these situations didn't apply. He couldn't walk away and allow her to be hunted down and killed, and he couldn't leave the matter to another person equally as capable for there wasn't one. She wasn't at all liked the bitch in the hall and not really a whore, no matter how many times he had called her one in his head that night. She was foolish and childish, petulant, a skilled but fair-weather fighter. Intelligent, even if she fell into the same shallow trap of most women. Yet she had a glimmer of cleverness females usually didn't have, and an understanding he thought odd for her years. Yes, he had only said the truth. Her ire was undeserved but expected, yet he didn't care about that. He wouldn't.

That's why it shocked even him when he had instead sized up his partner as a guard, rather than as a potential ally in the case.

_Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Going to get as bad as Dreiberg. _

It didn't help that the former Nite Owl had failed the examination. Completely and utterly, he had regressed from his crime-fighting days to the poor fop holding the spoon over the stove. Walter had respected the man once, still did somewhat, yet even the pale rose of memory couldn't deny the current situation. And then to make matters worse, she had had to barge in where she didn't belong, her voice an annoying buzz in his ears, and –

No.

He turned violently onto his other side, the few springs in the mattress not yet snapped groaning in protest. Walter didn't want to think of such things now that he no longer had the cover of Rorschach to keep them at bay. His face could stare down a woman, deflect their vexation and their charms, but his hands? Gloves were poor defense.

A shiver of dread and something else darted down his spine, giving rise to another wave of nausea wracking his form. The warmth had permeated through the glove, pooling in the leather so he felt it long after she had released –

No.

Seconds only, but it felt like longer. It would be different than if he were to shake hands with Dreiberg –

No. Don't think.

Dreiberg would not burn and pulse as her hand did, his eyes would not carry a current that leapt through leather and directly into skin –

_No. Don't think on her_.

When was the last time another human had laid a finger on him, whether by accident or design? He couldn't remember. People touched freely every day, gave pats, caresses, and hugs without a second thought, the currency of friends, lovers, siblings. But no one gave them to him. Years of fighting did not carry with it the jolt of the accidental brushing of hands.

Torment. Unclean. Weak. Torture. Divine torture.

When was the last time Walter had been touched by a woman?

_No. That's it. That's the end. No more. _

A low hiss left his mouth, teeth gritted in what might have been pain. The drunken ranting outside his door melded with the cry of children, and he could no longer tell if it was the building or his temple that throbbed. Broken springs half-speared his side, and came close to digging into the skin with just a bit more pressure, yet he vastly preferred the outside noise and pain to those clawing their way through his abdomen.

Tonight, Walter doubted sleep would be easy in coming; even when it did, if it did, he doubted he would enjoy the dreams.

Tomorrow, if he made it that long, he would be up by five and go to work. She left the motel around eight every morning.

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The cab revved softly as she handed the man his fare.

He was grizzled, eyes bloodshot from working the late-night shift among the constantly changing array of cabbies on the road. Nevertheless the slightly smoky interior of his cab beat the overall unreliability and duplicity of the subway service this late at night. She had no desire to wait for a late night train only to sit with the scariest of people. That wasn't really her thing anymore.

Dan had been the perfect host that evening, and despite the rather filling dinner, she was still a little tipsy from the wine he had offered. He had also insisted she spend the night, or what was left of it anyway, rather than attempt the trek back to the motel. Such a gesture was sweet of him yet ultimately unneeded. She felt fine, truly she did.

The only thing that didn't feel fine, ironically enough, was her little run-in with Rorschach. Normally something like that wouldn't bother her, she reflected as she opened the heavy door of the motel and stepped inside, as to be honest he hadn't acted all that out of the ordinary. It was silly to be thinking on, especially after it had niggled at the back of her mind for most of the night. The man probably wasn't used to being touched, self-imposed or not, and what hadn't been anything to her had apparently been enough to provoke him to uncharacteristic haste.

Interesting.

Nodding to the clerk still stationed at the front desk, she flashed her room key and headed for the stairs. Her head swam pleasantly and a little exercise probably wouldn't do her any harm, though a shower in a few hours was a definite must. Tomorrow she figured she might try to look for a job, just something to keep her busy since she didn't really need the money. She couldn't keep bothering Dan each day and asking him to entertain her.

That was something her mother would do.

What her mother also would do, she had to admit, was keep leading him on. This certain trend in dynamics between the two of them was not maliciously intentional, it was merely… comforting to know that someone wanted her after having been with Jon for so long. Laurie had hoped that perhaps a similar drive would be ignited within her own chest after spending so much time with Dan, but to no avail. He was a friend and a convenient ego booster. Well, alright, a little more than that, but her mind was too slow to ponder how much.

The backs of her eyelids were about the only things she was ready to ponder at this point.

Leaving the stairway at her floor, she had to pause and get her bearings, leaning against the doorframe. There was no way the floor should have looked so unsteady; maybe she had had a few more glasses than she'd originally thought. So take it slow, Laurie, just one step at a time and your room will be on the left in a few minutes. One foot, now the other, that's all.

She reached her doorway soon enough, fingering her key and attempting to insert it into the lock. The keyhole was made so goddamn tiny, it was a wonder anyone could actually open the door. It took her a few tries as it was before the familiar sound of the tumblers met her ears and the sight of her room met her eyes. Walking slowly into the chamber, she dropped her purse on the nearest chair and sent her shoes soaring across the room. The twin thuds as they made contact with the shuttered closet brought a smile to her lips.

So this was probably a good time to say going forward, she'd limit herself on the alcohol. The last thing she needed was to be another boozehound, her family had enough of those without her joining the ranks. Daniel probably wouldn't care, he clearly hadn't minded her state that night. She had a feeling Rorschach would, though.

But then again, why did she give a damn about Rorschach?

She didn't, not at all. She absolutely didn't care that he had mocked her, the bastard, didn't care that he was probably smug inside the rest of the night. And it certainly didn't matter to her that he had literally jolted beneath her hand, the leather of the glove smooth to her palm with the hint of something much warmer beneath. Sinking onto the bed, she couldn't help but wonder what his hand would look like without the glove, or what it would be like in her own. If he jolted from the touch of her hand, what would he do if touched somewhere _else_?

Her face contorting in confusion, she let out a bark of laughter. And liking the gesture, kept laughing.

Now _that _was the stupidest thought she had ever had, and she'd had quite a few during college. If she even remembered it tomorrow, she'd chalk it up to the rich wine with which Daniel had repeatedly filled her glass. Nobody thought about Rorschach that way, as a person. That was just silly. Even Dan didn't most of the time – he simply _was_.

But then again, it would be interesting to see what those hands looked like without the gloves. They'd have to be strong but slender, maybe scarred. She couldn't even begin to imagine what kind of skin he must have had, whether it was swarthy and rough, or pale and pockmarked, maybe jaundiced and sickly. Hell, now that she was thinking about it, why not extend the entire idea further and think of what a man like that must look like without the mask.

She had few answers.

Silently mulling the issue over, she couldn't place a face to his voice. Anything she thought of didn't fit in some way, either it was too old, too young, too perfect, too ugly. Only a blank image surfaced in her mind's eye, the facial equivalent of the blank mask and the only identity he would probably ever have. But people have faces, even the most screwed up members of the race, so he'd have to have _something_. Only question was… what?

He'd have to be normal looking, she decided on after some minutes, just enough to walk unnoticed on the street. And thankfully, those qualifications only left her with ten million possible candidates.

Sighing, Laurie fell backwards into the comforting embrace of her bed, too tired and unbalanced to bother getting up again. This train of thought would get her nowhere, and it wasn't like it honestly mattered – she'd never see him or meet him, and she was sure it was probably better that way. Tomorrow she could focus on staying busy, maybe even helping that guy she'd seen around the city, the one so desperate he'd follow her blocks uptown. She had money enough to spare and lord knew the city had enough hotdogs. See, she thought and smiled to herself, there were plenty of people who needed her help and wanted her company; she'd stick with them.

Even if he determinedly stuck to her thoughts.

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A/N: Please review!! I would appreciate it – from here on out, things will pick up, since they are clearly more intrigued and directly interested in each other. Next chapter, she buys the redhead hobo a hotdog... how does he respond?


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